


Adrift

by BootsnBlossoms, Kryptaria



Series: Bound [2]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rope Bondage, S&M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-09
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-07 22:44:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/753923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BootsnBlossoms/pseuds/BootsnBlossoms, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kryptaria/pseuds/Kryptaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spending a long weekend together should have been enough for Q and James Bond. But after two months of nothing but oversight meetings, management hassles, impossible deadlines, and distant professionalism from Bond, Q's fraying nerves snap, and he goes to look for the wrong type of company.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As always, this was a group effort, and we're very grateful to our team of betas and cheerleaders! Thanks to Eryn, Jennybel75, Mitaya, Reluctantabandon, Snogandagrope, and Stephrc79!
> 
> ~~~

Q rarely sat at his desk, but now he did, sinking into the hydraulic support of his drafting chair with a sigh. He pressed his fingers under his glasses to banish the headache that had started halfway through the budgetary committee meeting when he’d had to explain again, _for the fourth time_ , that his specialists — his Phoenix Project team — were _not_ secretaries or data entry technicians and were, in fact, worth every bloody quid that he’d budgeted to the program. Because the damned dinosaurs in oversight couldn’t tell the difference between a real cyber-terrorist and a particularly clever .gif designer putting the PM’s face on llama pornography, he’d been forced to come up with numbers to justify what couldn’t be enumerated.

How could he explain the elegance of the attack that had tied up enemy internet access, slowing their military comms to a crawl? How could he give a monetary figure to the ripple effect his team had had on the enemy’s economy?

He’d never been so tempted to ‘accidentally’ task a Double O to home-soil operations before.

Q needed something _big_. Something that showed the budgetary committee — and everyone else — exactly what the Phoenix Project was worth. But what could that _something_ be?

He pulled up the spreadsheet of priority projects: a list of wants and needs from senior admin officials in MI6, sorted by deadline and number of requests for action. Solve the geopolitical resource crisis in the South China Sea. Deal with the Israel/Palestine dispute. Solve global warming.

Q huffed to himself.

Rather viciously, he thought that their ‘project’ could be something that would hit home — maybe hacking Her Majesty’s Treasury. Diverting budgetary resources to MI6 instead of whatever dog-and-pony show those committee idiots currently loved.

Nanobots. Q had heard something interesting was going on with nanobots at Baskerville... perhaps _that_ would be distracting enough to...

To...

Q closed his eyes and cursed at himself before he could finish the thought. He didn’t _need_ to be distracted from the thought of Bond, dammit. Bond wasn’t a blip on his radar anymore. He was a one-weekend stand. He was... _two months ago_. Two months of nothing but perfect, distant professionalism.

Sighing to himself, Q pulled his hands away from his head to rest them in his lap. Perhaps it was time for a club again.

Screw the risks. He’d just make certain he wasn’t caught.

 

~~~

 

The door opened, but no footsteps followed. Bond looked up from the book he’d been staring at without reading the words, and called, “Don’t bother to shoot!”

After a moment, the door closed. Alec walked into the living room, gun in one hand, groceries in the other. “It’s Friday night.”

“Well spotted,” Bond said, looking back down at the book. “Since when do you have any interest in aquariums?”

“Since I can’t have a dog or cat unless I find someone stupid enough to marry me.” Alec holstered the gun and walked to the sofa. He took the book, _The New Marine Aquarium: Step by Step_ , out of Bond’s hands and demanded, “Why are you here? _Again?_ ”

Bond shrugged. “M doesn’t have anyone he wants killed. The world’s at a disgustingly high level of peace.”

“And you’re not out shagging someone because... why?”

“Too much effort.”

Alec stared down at Bond, who resolutely ignored him in favour of picking up the remote for the telly. Alec promptly snatched it from his hand and put the grocery bag down on the sofa instead. “James.”

“Alec. What?”

“You’ve been off-mission for four days. If you go two days without a date, something’s gone horribly wrong. You can’t tell me two months in _Canada_ actually traumatised you.”

Bond snorted. “The mission was dull.”

“Fine. So _go the hell out_. Stop lurking here. It’s creepy, and if I bring a date home, she’ll ask awkward questions.”

With a sigh, Bond got off the couch and picked up the groceries. “Maybe I need to retire. Or go freelance.”

“Oh, yes, because MI6 has a lovely retirement plan that includes references for future employers. And then I’d get to hunt you down and kill you.” Alec followed Bond into the kitchen. “Really, James. I’m worried about you.”

“I’m fine.” Bond started unpacking the groceries, frowning. “Did you just buy whatever was on sale or did you have a recipe in mind?” he asked sceptically.

Alec shot him a guilty look.

“Right.” Bond shoved the whole bag into the fridge. “Come on. We’ll get dinner and maybe find twins.”

“Lovely. Go shave first. You look homeless.”

“Ever think it’s your charming personality that keeps you from getting dates?”

“That or the fact that my best friend’s practically living on my sofa!” Alec yelled after him.

 

~~~

 

Q felt the soft (not callused) hand of the black-haired (not blond) man slide up under his shirt and down into his waistband. The man, whose name he hadn’t bothered to learn, was busy biting his ear and grinding himself forward into Q’s arse. He chuckled darkly every time he managed to elicit a gasp from Q thanks to a slip of fingernails or too-hard a press of hands. Q closed his eyes and went through the routine — making the right noises, moving in all the right ways, shuddering when he was supposed to.

Then the man’s hand stopped, hovering over the delicate skin at his waist. Not his waist — his hip. Q stopped moving, stopped breathing. His eyes flew open in something that felt like alarm, though the dom’s head was tucked too far into his neck to notice. The dom’s fingertips slipped lower, and lower, until it was tracing repetitively around Bond’s scar.

No. Not Bond’s scar. The scarification.

After long moments, the dom finally tugged on Q’s ear, hard enough to _really_ hurt. “Want to go home with me?” the dom asked darkly.

Q knew what would happen. Knew where the night would lead them. But when he opened his mouth to say ‘No, thank you, I don’t like pain,’ what came out instead was:

“Absolutely.”

 

~~~

 

Her name, Bond learned between the most horrid giggles he’d ever heard, was Alicia. God help him, she was from _California_ , and Alec was utterly enchanted with her sister or roommate or whatever. So as Alec charmed the brunette (hair a shade darker than Q’s, Bond thought in irritation), Bond distracted Alicia, smiling at the right moments and asking the right questions and wondering if he could manufacture an explosive to set off as a diversion so he could escape. The candle on the table was a good start.

“What did you say you do again?” Bond asked. He had no idea if she’d actually said, but she was enough of a narcissist that the question thrilled her all the same.

“Dental hygienist.”

“Naturally,” Bond murmured, though the word went unheard as she launched into a tale of five-year-old triplets who’d come to her dental surgery.

She was _cheerful_. Bond wanted to strangle her. Cheerfully.

The evening had started out well enough, at a bar in Shoreditch that was just trendy enough to be interesting. It was a bit light on leather and heavy on designer perfume, but Bond could have lived with that. And, in fact, a few people had caught his eye — right up until Alec had dragged him over to meet Alicia and her supremely tolerant friend, and Alicia had latched onto Bond like a starving tick.

And now, Alec and Alicia’s friend were out on the dance floor, leaving Bond to keep Alicia diverted long enough for Alec to coax his date into coming home with him.

Bond glanced surreptitiously at his watch. Half ten. God, the night was never going to end. He’d really expected it to be closer to midnight.

“So what about you? What do you do?” Alicia asked, laying claim to his arm and snuggling close.

He resisted the urge to pull away. “International sales,” he lied. The last thing he needed was for her to get caught up in the supposed glamour of espionage.

“Ooh. So you get to travel lots, I bet.”

“Actually, never. I work at a desk. It’s all internet now,” he lied, flinching inside as vague thoughts of Q and his fear of flying crept up in his memory. It wasn’t his concern. If Q wanted to see the world, he had wikipedia.

God, why was he even _thinking_ about Q? Bond leaned forward, freeing his arm, and picked up his drink. “Terribly boring, I’m afraid. It’s Alec who’s the... foreign sales desk liaison,” he said, scrambling for any sort of _interesting_ title. “He has an office in Dubai. And Bali.”

“Really?” she asked, turning wide, vacant eyes towards the dance floor.

 _Oh, please god,_ Bond thought, seeing a sudden escape. “Oh, yes. And, ah... well, I don’t know how close you and your friend are, but you might be more Alec’s type than mine. I’m afraid I’m a bit boring.”

She blinked at him, uncomprehending.

“ _Both of you_ might be more his type,” Bond hinted.

“Really?” she repeated. It seemed to be one of her favourite words. _“Really?”_

“Yes. Absolutely. Don’t take no for an answer if he tries to act shy,” Bond said, and thankfully luck was with him for once. She went after Alec, leaving him blissfully alone long enough so _he_ could escape. He settled the cheque, thinking it a small price to pay to leave without the Californian stuck to him like a barnacle.

It was almost eleven by the time he was back in his car — the perfect time to visit other, more specialised clubs. And it was so bloody tempting, but he knew he wasn’t in the right mindset to go picking up strangers. The thought of having to go through the stages of mutual interest and negotiation was just exhausting.

Instead, he went home, wondering if he was going to end up like Alec: doomed to getting an aquarium just to have something to do on Friday nights between missions. Christ, he’d shoot himself if that happened.


	2. Chapter 2

Q tried not to hiss as he leaned back in his chair, hoping that no one noticed how much more often he was sitting these days. He’d been careful to make sure his wounds were attended to, but nonetheless, all the gauze and numbing agent in the world couldn’t prevent his grimace of pain at whip-torn skin hitting the back of a polyester mesh office chair.

On second thought, standing was probably preferable after all.

“Avoid the main part of the souk — go through the back of the spice vendor’s stall on the right, but keep to the right. There will be an alley you can turn into almost immediately,” Wilson said into the comms for 003 as Q listened. Under the guise of cross-training, Q had been letting his second and third in command, Wilson and Barrett, take over mission support for the less high-casualty-rated missions lately. The truth, of course, was that he simply didn’t want to talk to Bond for fear of acting inappropriately, so he took the opportunity to hack third world countries in peace while the other Q Branch techs learned the ropes of mission-handling.

Not that he could do a proper job of it at his current level of distraction, of course. He looked over at his office phone, frowning. Was it worth the risk?

Two painfully long minutes later, Q picked up the phone.

“Wren? I have a favour to ask.”

“Hey, Ripper. What d’you need?” she asked cheerfully. Apparently _she_ hadn’t had a rough weekend.

“You know that cream you were raving about after your date with the manic riding crop user? You don’t happen to still have any of that on hand, do you?” Q asked, not bothering to hide the edge in his voice. Wren would understand. Be surprised? Certainly. But she would _understand_.

After a moment, she said, “Oh. Yeah, I do. It’s a great lip balm, too. Made with beeswax. Did...” Her voice went soft and sympathetic. “Did you need some?”

“Probably a lot more than would be in a lip balm tube,” Q said, annoyed with himself. “Please.”

“Let me run out to my car. Be down in ten,” she promised.

Q sighed in relief, with a quietly murmured thanks before he hung up the phone. The truth was, while he had played the sub scene quite thoroughly and quite well, he’d never failed to safeword out of the more sadistic aspects of the BDSM scene. Q didn’t like pain — he liked marks. Therefore, being whipped on the back, where he _couldn’t even bloody see_ , wouldn’t normally make much sense to him. But last night, with the black-haired dom’s hands in his trousers over his scar, and his whispered _‘more’_ ringing in Q’s ears, he hadn’t bothered to safeword out. And now he was paying for it.

Wren made it in eight and a half — not that Q was counting. She let herself into Q’s office and set down a fair-sized jar of dull yellow-white cream speckled with green bits of leaves. “You don’t look sunburnt. Hurt yourself cooking?” she asked, studying Q critically. Her hair, he noticed, was back to pink stripes.

With a few quick taps on his tablet, his office went Dark Protocol: All lines of communication shut down, and the glass office walls polarised to opaque black. No one would see or hear what they were doing. “You won’t call it harassment if I take off my shirt and ask you to do your magic, will you?” he asked with a dark grin.

Her brows shot up. “No, no problem,” she said, sounding puzzled. “Are you okay?”

Q sat up, and slowly peeled off first his cardigan, then his button-up. He stood only to to lean over his desk, exposing his back to her. “Do you mind terribly?” he asked, voice tight.

She let out a low whistle and picked up the jar. “This... isn’t your usual thing,” she said tentatively as she unscrewed the cap. “Experimenting or did something go wrong?”

“Neither. I didn’t safeword out,” he assured her, closing his eyes in anticipation of the cold chill of the cream on his back. “I’ve had a rough couple of months,” he added, hoping she wouldn’t press further.

She clucked and gently started applying the thick, numbing cream. It had aloe and menthol in a beeswax base, and while it stung at first, after a few seconds, it numbed the area enough to drop the stinging pain to a dull ache. “Well, it’s not _too_ bad,” she said hesitantly. “A couple of these might scar a bit, though. You should keep putting this cream on it. Just slather it on a sheet and lie down on it. It’s a bit squishy, but it works better than you’d think.”

Q didn’t answer verbally, but nodded. He didn’t trust his voice to sound appropriately calm — not due to the pain, but to her acknowledgment that some of the wounds would scar. At least he couldn’t see them, he thought bitterly to himself. “Thank you, Wren. Where should I go to get this magical concoction of yours?”

“Oh, I get it from a village market up north, from the lady who makes it.” She rested a hand briefly on his shoulder. “Why don’t you keep the jar?” she suggested gently.

“That bad?” Q asked with a chuckle as he stood. He turned to retrieve his shirt, frowning briefly at the specks of blood he saw on the inside before he shrugged it back on. “Thank you. If you ever need someone’s credit history erased, just let me know.”

“And if...” She trailed off, shaking her head, and gave him a quick smile. “I should have those access logs compiled for you in a couple of hours.” She rubbed her hands briskly together, filling the office with a minty smell. “That all right?”

Q finished buttoning his shirt and reached for the cardigan before grinning at her. “A couple hours instead of a couple minutes? I knew there would be a price to pay for your generosity,” he said with a genuine smile. “No rush.”

The worry faded from her expression, replaced by an impish grin. “You just wait.” She stuck out her tongue and left, with no hint of whatever she’d considered saying.

Q chuckled at the juvenile display of her silver tongue piercing and hid the cream before the door had even finished locking behind her. Feeling a little better, he sank back into his chair and went back to monitoring Wilson’s progress of 003’s mission.

 

~~~

 

Few people at MI6 didn’t wither before the anger of field agents — especially the Double O’s — and this time was no exception. Bond let himself into the executive offices and stormed right past Moneypenny, who took one look at him and sank back down into her chair, eyes wide.

“Door,” he snarled, and she hit the unlock buzzer an instant before his hand touched the latch. Probably for the best, though he’d been fully prepared to use explosives to get in, if necessary.

He stormed into Mallory’s office, interrupting a conference between Mallory, Tanner, and a woman Bond vaguely recognised from Analysis. Because he didn’t know her security clearance, he barked, “Out!” at her.

“007,” Tanner protested, though he fell silent when Mallory held up a hand.

Without looking away from Bond’s eyes, Mallory said, “We’ll continue this later, Leslie. Thank you.”

She left, avoiding getting too close to Bond.

Mallory leaned back in his chair. “I’d ask how your mission went, but...”

“I succeeded. And without a damned bit of ‘help’ from Q Branch,” Bond snapped, dropping the stolen messenger bag on Mallory’s desk. His computer started beeping like mad as the bag landed half-on the keyboard. “You instituted a formal complaint process. Consider this my bloody formal complaint. I want Barrett’s head on a fucking platter. If he runs a mission for a goddamned file clerk in Paris, it’s too much bloody responsibility.”

Somewhat gingerly, Tanner reached over to open the messenger bag. “I see you retrieved the drives. As I understood, we were supposed to steal the data.”

“Yes. And if that fucking idiot had _done his job_ , we’d have it, and they wouldn’t know,” Bond said, voice dripping acid. “But because Barrett —”

“Is an idiot, yes, we get that much,” Mallory cut in.

Bond’s fists clenched. “Because Barrett _is an idiot_ ,” he continued tightly, “if I’d waited for him to figure out how the bloody hell to get into their servers, even _with_ the USB drive I’d been issued, I’d be dead and they’d know we were there anyway. I made the command decision to just kill everyone, steal the drives, and burn the bloody datacentre down.”

“Well, at least you covered your tracks,” Tanner approved.

“Why aren’t you bringing this to Q, as Barrett’s supervisor?” Mallory asked.

Bond told himself not to twitch, not to react at all. “Because _you’re_ in charge of the Double O programme,” he said with a sharp-edged smile, “and that means you’re my manager. You get to facilitate interdepartmental... whatever the fucking buzz words are.”

“We’ll work something out,” Tanner promised, glancing at Mallory, who nodded in resignation. “Would you care to bring these down to Q Branch for analysis, 007?”

“No.” Bond hesitated, knowing that he should apologise or take some diplomatic action to smooth ruffled feathers, but the most diplomatic he could get at the moment would probably involve grenades. So he left, for once in his life deciding that maybe he’d stop by Medical after all, to get something for his damned headache. _Before_ he killed someone.

 

~~~

 

Q normally would have ignored the knock on his door while on a conference call, except the video feed showed Tanner, M’s Chief of Staff, standing outside. So he muted his phone, typed a quick message to let the other MI6 staffers know he’d be away for a few minutes, and disengaged the electronic door locks, wondering what had gone wrong. Tanner didn’t come down from the executive halls for fun.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Tanner said as he walked in, carrying a battered khaki messenger bag. “Bit of a problem we need to discuss, if you’ve got a moment.”

Eyeing the bag warily, Q rose stiffly from his chair and motioned to the one across from him. “Of course. Please, have a seat.”

“007’s returned. It seems things didn’t go according to plan with one of your technicians. Barrett?” he asked, bringing the bag to the desk. He sat down and started taking hard drives out of the bag. Some of them rather worse for wear, including two that had bullets embedded in the cases, matching the holes in the bag.

“Barrett is third under me in our organisational hierarchy,” Q confirmed, picking up one of the drives as a distraction. He was quite glad Tanner was using code names instead of full names. Just hearing the ‘007’ designation was enough to make his stomach flip. “I’ve been doing cross-training to ensure that if Wilson and I are out of commission, there will be someone able to effectively do our jobs. Barrett is not a natural, but he’s learning.”

“Er... he may be out of time,” Tanner warned delicately. “007’s formally requested he be removed from the field support division. Apparently he was taking too long to remotely access the drives, despite Bond’s infiltration and use of — What are you using now? A worm? Trojan?”

Q wasn’t about to explain the decryption protocol he’d written to help aid field operations to a man who thought ‘scrubbing the headers’ could do anything for security, so he sighed and almost leaned back before he caught himself. “Bond is too accustomed to my being on the other end of the comms, Tanner. Barrett isn’t nearly as fast as I am, but then again, no one really is. Barrett is still one of the best I’ve got, able to keep a calm head during a crisis.” He didn’t mention to Tanner that Barrett had managed to keep Bond on the line the entire operation, despite Bond’s increasingly violent verbal attacks. That, in and of itself, was a mark of the man’s competence.

Tanner nodded diplomatically. “I’m afraid, though, that Bond won’t work with him again. I rather suggest that Barrett take steps not to meet up with Bond in a shadowy carpark, at least — Well, 007 didn’t _mention_ if he was injured, but you know how field agents are. He did go to Medical, though, which is never a good sign.”

In a matter of moments, Q had already considered the best way to access Medical’s files to check in on Bond, just to make sure he was all right. Then it was the matter of a few moments more to chide himself for being an idiot. Bond wasn’t his. He had no right, or reason, to care about the state of 007’s health. Q distracted himself with thoughts of the completely nonviolent Barrett — twenty-six years old, three inches shorter than Q, and under nine stone dripping wet — cornered in front of his motor scooter with an angry Bond towering over him.

Clearing his throat to keep from smirking, Q set down the hard drive and picked up another. “Very well, sir. I’ll make sure Barrett practises on field agents a bit more before he’s allowed to interact with a Double O again.”

“Thank you,” Tanner said, with a relieved smile. He rose and said, “No need to put anything formal in the records unless Bond pushes the matter further. We’ll see if a bit of time and distance changes his mind. You know how they get when they’re fresh in from the field. Everything all right with you?”

“Perfectly. I’ve installed the new UV lighting in the bullpen, and that seems to have had a measurable effect on morale. Not that I’ve done post- surveys yet, but productivity is markedly on the rise.” Q stood and smiled with firm reassurance. “Give my best to M.”

“Stop by topside any time,” Tanner answered cheerfully, giving Q a quick nod before he let himself out of the office.

Q did his best not collapse into his chair the moment Tanner left, more out of concern for his back than for the fact that his office wasn’t in Dark Mode. He turned to pull a static-proof box from the shelves behind him, deciding that Danielle’s plate was clear enough to take this for him. He didn’t want any opportunity to have to talk to Bond — two months hadn’t been enough to entirely wipe away the flush of contentedness he felt about their weekend together. Even just knowing Bond was angry with Barrett for not being as competent as Q made him feel far too pleased with himself than he strictly had any right to be.

The bullet-pierced drives went into the box as Q thought about Wilson and whether Bond would like him any better. At least it wouldn’t be seen as Q being unfair to Bond; at this point, in the name of training, Q hadn’t run a single field mission in weeks.

He picked up the box and went to find Danielle, refusing to consciously acknowledge how much he hated that loss.

 

~~~

 

Two weeks later, Q was still not running missions, though he was monitoring the important ones more closely. Missions critical enough for two Double O’s to work in tandem were rare but not unheard-of. Despite his recent hands-off policy, Q kept an eye on signal traffic — not actually eavesdropping but watching as his support team worked to get into enemy security. North Korea had some of the best cybersecurity specialists on the planet — in many cases because they kidnapped the experts and forced them to work at gunpoint, or so it was rumoured.

So Q wasn’t entirely unprepared when something went wrong. Danielle banging a fist on his office door did make him nearly jump out of his chair. He hit the remote to unlock his door, and she shoved it open, saying, “— again, 007? We’re losing you.” She gave Q a wild-eyed look and held out a spare wireless headset. “We’re _trying_.”

As tempted as Q was to simply shake his head with an exasperated ‘Again?’, he stood up from his chair and walked over to hold his hand out for the headset. Danielle wasn’t his second-in-command only because she didn’t want to be on the management track, but she was his first choice for handling anything that turned into a crisis.

If Danielle couldn’t handle the problem, then it wasn’t merely a problem. It was a bloody brick wall.

“...enough!” came Bond’s voice as Q put on the headset Danielle offered him.

“That’s enough of that, 007,” Q said calmly. “What do you need?”

“How about a fucking _shutdown of the goddamn facility alarm?_ ” Bond demanded.

“HQ,” 006 interrupted, “we’re separated. I’m at the missile control centre, but —”

Gunfire made Q and Danielle both wince. “I’m at the bloody _armoury_ ,” Bond snapped furiously.

“Intentionally?” Q asked dubiously, and Danielle gave him a wild-eyed head-shake and put a finger to her lips.

Bond launched into a vicious tirade that cut off only with more gunfire, some of it even louder.

Q hurried out to the bullpen and went to the screen most commonly used to track agents on field missions. He didn’t even have to glare at Wilson and Barrett for them to vacate their shared position at the laptop that controlled the screen. They’d already hacked the network, but apparently were having trouble locating the server that housed the alarm.

It took Q all of eight seconds to figure out why. The alarm controls weren’t centrally located; it was housed at the guard station on the main road — remote enough that it should have been locked down before 006 and 007 even made it past the front gate.

“Well, that’s done _something_ ,” 006 said cheerfully.

“006, backup,” Bond answered tightly.

“I don’t have the codes yet,” Alec answered, his voice absolutely neutral. “Working on it.”

Q narrowed his eyes as he pulled up the interfaces for every computer within ten feet of 006 — which, surprisingly, turned out to be eight of them. “Checking remote accessibility,” he said quickly, verifying whether he had complete access or not. As it turned out, he did — Wilson and Barrett had got root access almost immediately, but apparently were too distracted by the alarm to do anything with it. “I can get the codes,” he said quickly. “006, please make your way to 007’s location. I’ll clear the way.”

“Negative,” Bond interrupted grimly. “You’re too late. They’re here.”

“Don’t be an arse,” Alec answered.

“I’m burning the corridor. They’re like bloody cockroaches out there.”

“You’re at a dead end!”

 _“Go!”_ Bond snapped.

“007, there’s hardly any ventilation according to our building plans,” Danielle said, shooting Q another desperate look.

“Then the fire will burn out quickly.”

“I’m ninety seconds from the exfil point,” 006 said. “Bond —”

“I’ll catch up. See if you can hit our secondary objective while you’re on the way out.”

Alec’s huff came clearly over the radio. “Fine. Danielle, you still there?”

“With you, 006,” she said, and went to Barrett’s desk. She glared him into retreating, and then she leaned over to start typing.

Q took a deep breath and held his hands up, immediately causing the low buzz of grimly excited conversation in the room to go silent. He leaned purposefully over the laptop, accessing not just the building map, but its architectural plans as well. Thank god for defectors willing to sell information.

Doing his best to ignore the rapid gunfire he heard in his ear, Q came up with a plan. “007,” he said calmly. “I can all but create a vacuum in the series of sealed corridors that lead outside. If you do what I say, when I say, we can use a combination of environmental controls and sealed doors to direct the fire safely away from you, using oxygen as a breadcrumb trail. But I’ll have to seal you into the armoury first, and the successive hallways afterward.” He stopped and waited, knowing that asking something as foolish as ‘do you trust me’ would be... _absurd_.

“Fine. I didn’t have anywhere else to be,” Bond answered sharply. “Best act fast. The alternative is for me to fire a rocket into the grenades I’ve been pitching down the hallway. They’re finally staying around the corners, but it’s not as if the armoury has a back door.”

“I’m looking at the plans now. The armoury door close from the ceiling?”

“Affirmative,” Bond confirmed.

Pleased, Q nodded, as ridiculous a gesture as it was. “All right, then. I’m going to start the armoury door closing. Wait until it’s about six inches from the floor before you toss your incendiaries into the hall. Even if it’s an immediate explosion, the door will close soon enough to prevent your getting burnt. Then stand as close to the door as possible, even if it’s hot, and wait for me to open it again. Even if you have to roll under it to get past, go exactly when I tell you and not a nanosecond later.”

Bond growled, “Acknowledged. Where’s 006?”

Q glanced over at Danielle, and drew a ‘6’ in the air and then raised a brow questioningly. She smiled reassuringly, though apprehension still danced at the corners of her upturned mouth, and gave him a thumbs up. “Danielle has him,” he told Bond.

“Fine. Ready when you are.”

If not for the fact that this all started through an intel failure on the part of MI6 — that bloody guard house could’ve been taken out with anything from a rocket launcher to a crashed car — Q would have _really_ enjoyed the triumph of technology and teamwork that followed. It was almost a thing of beauty, watching and directing the fire with tasty, irresistible trails of oxygen, forcing it to move mere metres in front of Bond as he chased it from one set of closed doors to the next.

One last shout from Q — _Go!_ — and one last grunt from Bond as he rolled trustingly under a tonne of reinforced steel towards the next hallway, and Q had to resist the urge to giggle. As it was, his self-control slipped, riding the adrenaline high, and he said, “That was amazing.”

“Oh, this isn’t over,” Bond threatened. “Not at all. Now patch me the fuck back through to 006.”

The happiness dissipated under the weight of Bond’s anger. “As you wish,” Q said with a weary sigh, turning back to Danielle as he muted his comms. “Can you handle this?” he asked her.

She gave him a sympathetic look and typed out a few quick commands. His earwig went silent. She stood away from her commandeered keyboard and said, “Thank you, sir. I’ve got this now, if you want to review the recordings of what happened while the incident is still fresh.”

Barrett and Wilson both blanched at that.

Q glared at them before turning to head back toward his office. Best to review in Dark Mode, so he could swear and throw darts as much as he pleased without jeopardising his reputation as exceptionally calm and detached. The intel failure could have been a subordinate’s, but Barrett and Wilson, as senior techs in charge of providing operational support, were ultimately responsible. The lapse was infuriating. Q hadn’t been training them for nothing — and he had no idea who he would promote up the ladder next. 


	3. Chapter 3

“That’s twice your incompetents have buggered a mission, nearly ending with getting me killed,” Bond said, pacing across the office. “No — scratch that. That’s _incompetent arseholes_.”

“I’m not typing that, James,” Lois said calmly, not even looking up from her keyboard. She was the only secretary in the pool who’d held her ground when he’d stormed up to admin, where the executive secretaries had their domain. He had no idea if she was brave or on excellent tranquilisers. Either way, she didn’t even blink before his fury, which he found calming.

“Twice!” he snapped in her direction, though not _at_ her. _She_ hadn’t done anything wrong at all. She was brilliant and wonderful and courageous and most definitely _not_ the Q Branch idiots who’d nearly ended his life. “Why the bloody hell aren’t _you_ in Q Branch? You could run the bloody ops better than most of those idiots.”

“Flatterer,” she said dryly. “Did you want me to read this back or shall I simply attach your e-signature and send it?”

He snarled and waved a hand sharply, glaring around the empty desks. It was Friday, and the rest of the staff had taken Bond’s appearance as incentive to leave early. He looked back at Lois. Mid-twenties, blonde, adorable pixie cut, smartly dressed... He moved up to the side of her desk and put on a smile that was only slightly edged with the remnants of his anger.

“It looks like —”

“I’m a lesbian,” she interrupted, finally looking up from her screen.

He blinked. “Well, that’s —”

“A _married_ lesbian.” She held up her left hand, showing a fine gold band. “She’d be thrilled to know you’re happy for us.”

“Naturally, I am.” He shrugged it off. “Thank you.”

“Thank Ms Moneypenny,” she said, turning back to her typing. “She’s the one who locked you out of the email server until Monday. Said you’d be sending off all sorts of uncensored emails if we didn’t.”

Bond huffed. “Interfering bitch.”

“Yes, lovely, isn’t she?” Lois clicked her mouse, turned off her monitor, and rose. “If you’ll excuse me, it’s happy hour somewhere, and I’m going to find it. Welcome home, James.”

“Thank you, Lois,” he said with a sigh, and wondered what the hell to do now. Alec had made it clear that he was going to go home, get spectacularly drunk, and pass out until tomorrow afternoon, which had its own appeal, but Bond had been hoping for something more.

He wasn’t in any sort of mental state to actually _do_ anything — any club monitor would take one look at him and have him arrested if he even tried — but that didn’t mean he couldn’t scout out a partner for tomorrow night.

 

~~~

 

Q sat in the ground-floor conference room where he and the members of the Phoenix Project had been meeting with regularity for three months now. Though all the members of the team had officially been granted access to Q Branch, none of them particularly liked doing their work there. Q was too often hauled off to deal with some situation or another, and it seriously interrupted their ‘flow’, as Manners called it.

And though UV lights had a serious advantage over regular fluorescent ones, Q found that he quite liked the more frequent contact with actual sunlight — when it bothered to reveal itself from behind the constant cloud cover, anyway.

“So that’s our next project,” Q concluded, smiling grimly at the somewhat disbelieving faces staring back at him.

“Every single damn military installation in every hot zone in the world?” Ricoh said slowly.

“I’m thoroughly sick of doing it piecemeal,” Q answered, watching Ricoh. “I want maps and security system layouts and every single bloody backdoor we can manufacture, and I want it thoroughly documented.”

Wren sat forward, looking at Q very calmly and steadily. “Perhaps instead of actually _doing_ the documentation, we could document how to crack each security subtype? Otherwise, updating all that data will be impossible even for a hundred times our number.”

“First comes the list,” Q said. “Then comes the crack. Then the unkillable, invisible backdoor. The documentation isn’t as high on the list, but necessary — what good is a back door if we all die in a helicopter crash tomorrow, and no one knows about the project?” Q raised his hand at Wren’s expression. “I’m not being morbid. I just can’t have a repeat of two days ago. And I _know_ we can do this — even if it means writing monitoring programs that update the documentation automatically as systems are upgraded or changed.” Q’s mobile beeped with an incoming email, but though he pulled his mobile off the table and into his hand, he didn’t unlock it yet.

“If we do it in XML...” Wren said, looking at the others.

Ricoh immediately snapped, “XML isn’t the answer to everything.”

“You want to update _manually_?” she challenged.

“You want to code a pretty little front end for the users to print with custom stationery?” he countered.

“Or how about we plan the data first and a presentation later?” Manners interrupted, for once being the calm, sane one.

“I’m not asking,” Q said quietly as he looked down at his phone, typing in the unlock code. “I’m telling. You have the weekend to think it over. Everyone come back with something useful on Monday.” He listened to them grumble — no less than he had expected — as he pulled up his email. Who was Lois Maxwell?

“Please reference attached internal incident report 91087-006/007 re: events in North Korea military installation M19FF-x774. L. Maxwell on behalf of J. Bond.”

Q left his team to step outside the conference room. He was _so_ not ready to read this email — though he suspected that if it were filtered through what was undoubtedly an administrative assistant, it wouldn’t be as bad as it could be. Reluctantly tapping the attachment, Q looked down at the report.

Scathing as it was, the report wasn’t anything less than a carefully scrubbed, polite version of the truth. Barrett’s and Wilson’s error — really, who mistakes an armoury for a library? — was bloody incompetent, and nearly cost MI6 two of their best agents. They’d already been dealt with.

He sighed and tucked the phone back into his pocket. No point in responding — he’d leave the weekend to let himself get a better sense of detachment before telling Bond anything.

He went back into the conference room to find his team had come to some sort of agreement; at least, they weren’t yelling at one another over XML anymore. “Do we have a plan?” he asked.

Ricoh glanced up at him. “We’re good, Ripper,” he said, sounding somewhat apologetic.

“I think we can get you something preliminary... End of the month?” Wren asked. The others nodded, and all of them looked at him hopefully.

“Excellent. I won’t be available this weekend, I think, so don’t bother trying to get hold of me. I won’t answer. See you on Monday.”

He stepped aside to let them trickle out. Then he checked the security protocols of the room before gathering his own jacket, laptop, and bag. Time for a club.

 

~~~

 

Underground was one of a half dozen BDSM clubs that existed on the fringe of the law. On club nights, the organisers rented a small bar for ‘member-only parties’, which allowed the facility owners to avoid most legal issues. The fact that the event organisers also rented storage space onsite for dungeon gear was a completely separate business transaction.

The organisers were careful to avoid even a hint of alcohol or drugs, required the patrons to avoid loitering outside, and generally kept things quiet and civilised. Because membership was open, volunteers acted as dungeon monitors. It was relatively safe, for a club that allowed everything from whippings to fire-play.

Despite the warm evening, Q wore a jacket over his mesh sleeveless shirt, in keeping with the club’s policy. He wore fitted blue jeans rather than anything more exotic, but if all went well, he’d be getting out of them fairly quickly, leaving only the tight black boxers. The knife-scar low on his hip would show at the little notch when he walked, but it might go unnoticed if he stood still. He didn’t know if he wanted that or not.

He paid for a night’s membership — a legal fiction the club’s ownership required for insurance purposes — and checked his coat, earning a cheeky grin from the older man at the counter. Then he let himself through the curtain and into the open space beyond.

A small bar served water, juice, soft drinks, and snacks. They also sold a selection of local leather-crafts and consumables, everything from condoms to bondage tape. The room itself was divided into general areas. In the centre was a low stage that could be configured with any of the equipment scattered along the side walls. Currently, the woman onstage was giving a demonstration on the creative use of zip ties. It was early enough in the evening that most people were lurking or chatting, and Q paused to look around, spotting a few familiar faces.

The zip tie demonstration didn’t look promising; Q couldn’t help but thank his MI6 training for seeing them as nothing but effective tools for restraining victims for interrogations. He decided to take a stroll around the room to see whose attention he might catch, thinking it might take a while to find someone suitable. Between his scar and the whip marks, he assumed at least a quarter of his prospects would be scared away, and fully another quarter far, far too interested for Q’s own good.

There were a few who caught his eye immediately — the curly redhead in the leather body suit looked like just enough fire to hold his attention, but it wasn’t Q’s style to approach. Not in clubs, at least. Let someone _else_ make the decisions, right from the start. Otherwise, it could set a bad precedent for him for the evening. Or weekend, if the person were interesting enough.

Fortunately, he didn’t have long to wait. Not fifteen minutes passed before a woman in black latex with too many zippers approached. “Hi. Are you here alone?”

“Yes,” he answered simply, scanning her. Fingerless gloves hid her hands, so Q couldn’t tell if she had promising calluses or not. He found himself distracted by the zippers, trying to figure out if they were in some way functional or merely decorative.

“Not for long, looking like that,” she said with a smile. “Makes me glad I found you first. What are you looking for, then?”

“Your pleasure is mine,” Q responded with a grin of his own. It was with grim satisfaction that he watched her gaze sharpen, a predatory grin taking over her earlier casual smile. She _liked_ that idea, those formulaic words, a satisfactory contrast to —

With a mental flinch, Q pushed away the memory. Thankfully, she distracted him, wrapping a strong hand around his wrist.

The rest of the negotiation didn’t matter to Q; those were just details. Before he knew it, thanks to apparently saying all the right things at the right times (something he was very good at), he was kneeling between her legs, facing away from her. She sat on the couch, playing with his hair and waiting for enough of an audience to gather. She said she wanted everyone to see how beautifully Q could take whatever she wanted to do to him.

Instead of biting out his instinctive ‘not for me, thanks,’ Q closed his eyes and tilted his head away from her hand. He hadn’t had much luck reaching that perfect state of surrender since... several weekends ago, and was desperate to be taken outside his head. The last dom he’d tried hadn’t done it; maybe it was time for something new.

 

~~~

 

There was something almost sterile about the club environment that Bond hated, efficient as it was. Half the fun for him was finding those hidden submissives who haunted common nightclubs and bars in their too-tight clothing, watches with thick straps like cuffs, tight necklaces, and high heels. Going to a club where _everyone_ was interested, in one way or another, felt like cheating. Why not fill out bloody Scantron cards and let a computer do all the work to find matches? BDSM for the assembly-line age.

Christ, but he was in a bad mood, which naturally meant that he attracted attention the minute he entered, even though he wasn’t even dressed the part. An old Nine Inch Nails concert T-shirt and blue jeans were hardly fetish-wear; perhaps the cold glare made up for the lack of leather and chains. At least no one tried to touch him; ‘hands off without consent’ was the biggest advantage to these clubs, which was why he was here rather than at a nightclub.

On centre-stage, club volunteers were taking down a St. Andrew’s cross and putting up stocks. Bond slipped into the crowd, not quite succeeding in his efforts to become invisible. He was too aware of people as threats, and he had to work to keep from flinching at the sharp movements and whipcrack sounds of leather on flesh.

This was a mistake. He knew better than to be out in this mood. He’d come too close to dying only two days ago, and he’d never found a target for his anger. The techs running the op (and where the _fuck_ had Q been?) had been sent to one of the diplomatic missions to the United States to provide local tech support, which effectively meant Bond couldn’t even go after them with a sniper rifle. Probably intentional, that.

He determinedly walked past a smaller, less-showy St. Andrew’s cross, where a thin, pale body was being rather expertly whipped by a woman in black latex and zippers. She had surprising strength, judging by the fierce cracks of the whip, like gunshots, and she was barely giving her sub the chance to breathe and regain his equilibrium between strikes.

Surprised at the sub’s endurance, Bond paused and looked back, wondering if he could get an introduction. This particular sub would be out of commission for at least a week while the bruises, welts, and possible cuts healed, but he might know someone with similar tastes. Bond moved a step closer.

Then he froze, recognising the thin, almost boyish build. He’d counted those vertebrae with his tongue, covered every inch of that skin — _unmarked_ skin, then — with his hands.

Bond quashed his instinctive reaction — to snatch the whip away, break the woman’s arms, and possibly use the whip to strangle her — only because Q wasn’t protesting. He wasn’t safewording or even saying no. But he wasn’t riding the pain, either; he was fighting it, and no fucking surprise, because _this_ wasn’t his scene. And it wasn’t just the new red welts, either; underneath, there were darker bruises, weeks old, from other whips. _Fuck_.

It was his hands, though, that made the decision for Bond. They were clenched into tight fists, knuckles white, and the next time the whip fell, Bond saw Q pull against the cuffs — a hard, involuntary motion that should have had the idiot behind him stopping to check how he was doing.

Reminding himself that he was surrounded by civilians, he forced himself to walk away, to the loo at the front of the club. This _might_ be consensual, and unless Q were to safeword, Bond had no right to intervene — and he had no time to argue with the club’s staff.

Fortunately, Bond could always find another way.

 

~~~

 

When the fire alarm went off, Q couldn’t stop his body from sagging in absolute, uncontrollable relief. Technically he didn’t fail to please — and more importantly, he hadn’t made a decision contrary to his domme’s.

For a long moment, Q wondered if anyone were going to let him down, or if he were going to be left to burn, like a beautiful effigy to stupid decisions. The pain on his back made it absurdly difficult to care.

Then, as stale water started spraying everywhere, someone — the woman who’d chosen him, he suspected by the feel of her latex dress — was reaching for his right wrist, and the touch on his arm brought him back to himself, making him aware of the crowd yelling and cursing. Only a few people seemed frightened, though horrific nightclub fires always made the news.

“Move. I have him,” a familiar voice, full of cold fury, said. It was followed by a curse lost under the feel of strong, callused hands unbuckling the cuffs around Q’s ankles, letting him step back.

Q tried to hold himself up, to not let himself experience any of the now-familiar comfort that had so thoroughly robbed him of his ability to detach. But it was biological, not psychological, and he felt himself fall against Bond as his body acknowledged the trauma. “What are you doing here?” he asked, trying to push himself upright.

“Saving your arse,” Bond muttered, taking hold of Q’s arms. “I need to carry you. This is going to hurt. Ready?”

“You really shouldn’t. Where is Zippers?” Q knew Bond wasn’t going to take him home — he’d been quite clear about his distaste for second encounters. “I’ve earned not being stuck in a cab and sent home alone.”

“Bloody idiot,” was all Bond answered, and Q felt himself lifted, gently but painfully, into Bond’s arms. Something hard caught his attention, and he saw, through his wet fringe, his own glasses tucked into the neckline of Bond’s T-shirt.

Bond didn’t put him down once they were out of the sprinklers and into the humid late summer night. There were people gathered, but Bond cut right through the crowd.

“Wait,” Q protested, pulling his glasses free from Bond’s shirt. “Where is she? I told you — I’m not leaving yet.” He pushed at Bond’s chest, though he was unwilling to actually meet the agent’s eyes. _Of all the gin joints,_ he thought angrily.

“If she comes within thirty feet of you, I’m shooting her,” Bond growled, holding Q tighter to his chest as he kept walking.

Q sighed with sudden realisation, ending his rather lacklustre attempt at wrestling free. “You know it’s illegal to set off fire alarms when there is no fire, right? I suppose I’ll have to scrub the security footage for you, won’t I?”

Bond huffed. “I’ll deal with it. And the alternative was me” — he faltered, arms tightening almost painfully for a moment — “breaking your date’s arm,” he finished, and Q knew that wasn’t what he’d been about to say. “Can you stand? I need to unlock the car.”

“Yes,” Q said firmly, as if the situation allowed for any other answer. He tried to straighten as Bond carefully set him down, but in a sensation that was becoming sadly familiar, the pull of the whip wounds stole his breath and his determination. He didn’t fall; he merely held as still as possible, waiting. He didn’t know exactly what Bond wanted from him, but he was in no position to argue at the moment.

Bond held him by one arm as he turned off the car alarm and opened the door. “Sit down. Lean sideways if it’s easier for you,” he said, holding Q’s arm to help him balance as he got into the low sports car. “Don’t bother with the seatbelt. Nothing’s going to happen to you.” After a moment’s hesitation, he closed the car door.

He got into the driver’s seat a moment later and started the engine, quickly turning the radio down after a momentary blast of alternative rock. Though the summer’s warmth was stifling, he turned on the heat and aimed the vents at Q. As soon as he had the car in gear, he reached over to take Q’s hand.

“Do you need to go to A&E or Medical? How badly did she hurt you?”

“I’m fine.” It was a ridiculous phrase, and a ridiculous answer, but at least it matched the ridiculous turn the evening had taken. Truly fine would have been in someone’s bed, escaping the crush of recent events. Truly fine may have been under Zippers’ hand, if he had stuck it out long enough to find out. It was absolutely not going to A&E or, worse yet, Medical.

Fine was definitely not sitting in the front seat of Bond’s car, being subject to a convincing but certainly false display of possessiveness and concern.


	4. Chapter 4

Q’s glasses were spotted with water from the sprinklers, but he didn’t have the energy to take them off and clean them. He tried to pay attention to where they were going, but his normally sharp mind was fogged not by the delicious feel of subspace but by the pain of the whip and chill from the sprinklers and warmth of the car’s heater and by _Bond_ here, pretending to care, taking him who-knew-where. He looked up in alarm when the car slowed and Bond scanned a card at a gate, but he relaxed when he realised it wasn’t the security entrance to the MI6 parking garage. Not that an unfamiliar parking garage was too much better.

Bond didn’t waste time looking for a parking spot. He went right to a spot on the first level, parked the car, and said, “Stay there,” before he got out. Because the car was controlled by the key fob, he left the engine — and the heater — running.

Then he opened Q’s door and asked, “Can you walk? Actually, stay there.”

Despite the warm, slightly muggy air of the carpark, Q shivered at the difference in air temperature and curled forward towards the heating vent. “Where the hell are we?” he asked, not necessarily because he needed to know the answer — he was damn tempted to fall asleep, actually — but because he knew it was the sort of thing one was supposed to ask in situations like this.

Situations like this. Q laughed quietly at himself.

Bond came back with a towel, which he put carefully over Q’s shoulders. “My flat. I can carry you if you can’t walk. They’ve seen stranger things here,” he said as he helped Q to stand.

“Your flat?” Q asked looking around the car park. “But you don’t bring random people to your flat.” He held the towel over his shoulders and stared at Bond’s hand on his arm. “This isn’t necessary.”

Ignoring him, Bond led him away from the car. He used the remote to turn off the engine, lock the doors, and arm the alarm. “You need a hot bath, paracetamol, and sleep,” he said stubbornly, holding Q’s arm firmly but carefully. “You’re sure you can walk? I can carry you. You weigh next to nothing.”

“It hurts less to walk.” Q wanted nothing more than what Bond was apparently offering, but still felt more than slightly off his guard. Having Bond treat him like this, like he gave a damn, was far more painful than a whip cut.

Maybe that was the point.

“I’m sorry about what happened this week. But I didn’t do it on purpose. I was training them. I thought they could handle it.”

“I’m not dead,” Bond said bluntly. At the lift, he tapped the security panel with a keycard, rather than pressing a call button. Then he turned to Q and pushed his hair back out of his eyes. “Are —” He cut off and shook his head, pulling Q closer. “Relax,” he said instead. “We’ll be there in just a few minutes.”

Q’s mind and body gave up under the familiar touch that, despite being the deadliest Q had ever known, had managed to cement its place as comforting in Q’s admittedly fucked-up psyche. He leaned forward into Bond’s chest, letting go of the tension, deciding that even if he was being monumentally stupid about following an angry assassin home, he may as well enjoy what he could.

“Thanks,” Q muttered against Bond’s shoulder.

Bond wrapped a hand around the back of Q’s neck and held him silently. He took a couple of deep breaths, and then moved his hand back to Q’s arm when the lift doors opened. “Just a few steps,” he encouraged quietly, leading Q into the lift. He crowded Q into a corner and pulled him close as the doors closed, shielding Q from the currently empty space with his body. “How are you feeling?”

“Fuzzy. And not in a good way.” Q took stock, trying to determine if Zippers had actually hurt him enough to send him into shock. But he dismissed the attempt at self-diagnosis; Bond was an expert, and Q decided to leave it in his hands. “Fuzzy around the edges but not where it would be nice to experience dissonance. That doesn’t seem right. Inefficient, even.”

“Right. Stop talking,” Bond said, sounding worried. He encouraged Q to lean against him again and rubbed at the back of his neck. He wrapped his free hand around Q’s arm. “If there’s something you need to tell me, that’s fine. Otherwise, I want you to relax and let me take care of you. All right?”

“I’m your Quartermaster. I’m always supposed to have something relevant or even vital to tell you. I’m supposed to take care of you.” Q leaned against Bond, feeling like an idiot. “Crashing and burning at that part of the job description it would seem.” He wanted to reiterate the point about cross-training, but being half naked and walking into Bond’s flat, using him as a support, might make the argument seem invalid. “Phoenix will fix it though. Wait until you see.”

“I said, be quiet,” Bond ordered, turning just enough to brush his cheek against Q’s wet hair. “At least until you’re in better shape and making sense. Just _relax_.”

Q didn’t want to. He didn’t want to give in like a good sub, because Bond wasn’t his dom. Bond didn’t want anybody for longer than three days, let alone someone like Q. Damaged and ridiculous.

But he couldn’t help it, it seemed — at least, not tonight. Q quit talking and relaxed against his chest, and Bond's hand tightened on the back of his neck as if acknowledging the silence. His fingers rubbed little circles against tense muscles, and he brushed his face against Q’s wet hair again, almost affectionately.

“I might fall asleep in a bath,” Q admitted quietly, deciding that _definitely_ counted as relevant information.

“That’s fine. You need the rest,” was all Bond said.

Then the lift stopped, the doors opened, and they were moving again, slowly. Bond led Q out into a tastefully bland hallway, turned at the corner, and walked him to the end. He used his keycard to unlock the door, and Q considered commenting on the lack of security, but that probably wasn’t relevant information — not now, anyway.

His first impression of Bond’s apartment was that it was dark, not just from lack of lights but from dark-toned wood floors and dark paint in shades of maroon and forest green. Bond brought him down a hall with a thick red and gold runner and into a wide room with huge glass walls on two sides, looking out at the London skyline. Before Q could do more than get a glimpse, Bond led him past a heavy, antique-looking four-poster bed and into a bathroom of polished black marble and granite.

With one foot, Bond hooked a small bench out from under the vanity. “Sit,” he said, helping ease Q down onto the padded bench.

Q nodded and took off his glasses. He remembered Bond liked to have him take off his glasses when he was distracted — and he didn’t want to stare. Then, without looking at the blur by the door, he let the towel drop to the floor and started to work on undoing the waistband and flies of his jeans.

“I’ll get that if you can’t,” Bond told him, reaching out to the back of the door. He took down a somewhat battered terry cloth dressing gown, which he wrapped around Q’s shoulders. “Just don’t try to stand without me. Stay here.” He touched Q’s shoulder before he turned and went to a large, deep, freestanding bathtub in the corner of the room. He started the water and then left the bathroom.

Q managed to get the jeans undone, but was temporarily thwarted by the presence of his boots. Despite knowing what was going to happen, he’d worn an absurd pair of combat boots left over from his nineties clubbing days. All black leather and silver buckles and far too many laces, this damn pair didn’t even have a zip on the side.

With a quiet groan, Q bent over his knees to work on the boots. The pain was briefly overwhelming as skin the stretched and shifted, and he saw stars. He stopped working on the laces and decided to just stay there and wait for Bond to get back.

It was a minute before Bond returned, carrying a water bottle. He put it down on the counter with a muttered curse and helped Q to sit back up. “Idiot,” he said quietly. “Will you let me take care of you already?” He crouched down in front of Q to look into his eyes, pushing his hair back again.

“Why?” Q couldn’t help but ask, finally forced to meet Bond’s eyes. “I’m not your... You didn’t want...” Q took a breath and looked back down. “I mean, yes. I’ll let you.”

Bond sighed and got back up. He passed Q the bottled water and rooted through the medicine cabinet until he found a small bottle of pills. He shook two of them into his hand and offered them to Q. “Will paracetamol do or do you need something stronger? God knows I have enough.”

“This is fine. Something stronger would just make me even less coherent, and more likely to drown in the tub,” Q said with a chuckle. That was relevant, he was certain.

Q downed the pills and the water and gave the bottle back to Bond. “Thank you.”

Bond set the bottle on the counter and crouched down in front of Q again. He picked up where Q had failed with the boot laces, undoing them all the way down to the top of Q’s foot so he could remove the boot with ease. As he started on the other, he asked, “Are you feeling anything other than... your back? Nauseous or dizzy?”

“Still feeling fuzzy, but still not in a good way...” Q rubbed his hand over his wrist. “I really am just tired.”

Bond nodded and got the other boot off. He worked both socks off next, and then got up to check the water in the bathtub. He stuck his hand in, turned off the tap, and came back to Q. “Stand up,” he urged, holding out his hands to help Q to his feet. “I’ll get your jeans off, and then you can get in the tub. I won’t let you drown.”

It was with a wry smile that Q let himself be pulled up. “I do truly hope you’re not still feeling vengeful against Q Branch,” he said. _Relevant_. “If you are this might be the perfect opportunity.”

Bond laughed wryly. “Don’t tell me how to do my job.” He carefully pulled the jeans down, hooking his thumbs into Q’s pants to take them down as well. “Hands on my shoulders for balance so you can step out,” he prompted.

Q’s carefully constructed distance was starting to wear away, and it nearly evaporated at Bond’s hands on the bare skin of his hips. His hands trembled as he forced the idea that Bond might want him again away. He closed his eyes and tried to think about the latest Phoenix project instead.

As soon as Q was undressed, except for the robe around his shoulders, Bond stood and helped him cross the bathroom. “It’s not too hot,” he said, taking the robe so he could drop it on the floor by the tub. He braced Q’s arm to help him step into the water, and then pressed his shoulder to get him to sit down and then lean back.

He left the side of the tub long enough to pull the bench over. Then he sat down and touched Q’s face with his fingertips. “Close your eyes and relax. Once you’ve soaked out the chill, you can go to bed, all right?”

Q nodded but let himself slip under the water as he had before, eyes firmly closed. It was too much — too much pain from the whip, too much kindness from Bond, too much searching for a way to get his brain to shut up for just a little while.

He slipped further under the water and let the silence and the pressure comfort him, though he was careful not to settle heavily on his back.

Finally he felt Bond’s fingers on his arm, tugging to get him up out of the water. As soon as he surfaced, Bond’s other hand smoothed back his wet hair. “I told you, no drowning,” he scolded quietly. He combed his fingers through Q’s hair and didn’t stop even when it was all out of his eyes. “You make it too bloody easy for me to worry about you.”

“You’re not supposed to worry about me,” Q pointed out quietly. This wasn’t fair at all — admissions of false concern were an excellent manipulation tactic that Bond used to his advantage frequently on missions. Q knew better than to take it to heart, but he was struggling.

“And you’re supposed to be a bloody genius, not a self-destructive idiot,” Bond accused. “Why the _hell_ —” He stopped himself, hand stilling on Q’s head for a moment. Then he took a breath and asked, “Are you feeling any better?”

Q didn’t reply. He was too busy trying to think about a solid, shareable answer to Bond’s aborted question. _Why the hell..._ He slipped back under the water.

 _Because I can’t clear my head anymore and I think it’s your fault_ , probably wasn’t remotely acceptable.

Only a few seconds passed before Bond pulled back above the surface of the water. This time, he set a hand flat to Q’s chest. “You feel warmer. Are you still cold?”

“I’m just trying to think, Bond,” Q said, though he wasn’t certain his annoyance actually came through. “You could join me, you know,” he added before his brain-to-mouth filter kicked in.

Bond sighed and leaned down against the side of the tub. “I’m not doing anything you’ll regret tomorrow. You’ve already got enough to deal with. But you _are_ sleeping in my bed tonight, so I can keep an eye on you. I’ll let you pick where I sleep — next to you or in a chair by the bedside.”

Q shook his head. “Stupid. Superficial. They’ll heal.”

“We’ll talk about it tomorrow, if you want — or I can take you home and you never have to deal with me again outside MI6. Whichever you prefer,” Bond said tiredly.

Goddamn decisions. That was way too much for Bond to expect from Q. He was so tired, he was having trouble keeping his eyes open, no matter how badly he wanted to inquire about the possibility that Bond would let him stay tomorrow.

“Your preference is mine,” he fell back on, this time not actively choosing to slide into the water but somehow unable to stay upright. The water was too warm, too welcoming, too quiet under the surface.

He was too relaxed to protest when Bond pulled him out of the tub to wrap him in layers of thick towels. Bond dried him off gently, smoothing his hair back with the towel rather than rubbing at it, and then lifted Q into his arms again. When Q protested, though the painkillers were working, Bond just said, “Five seconds and I’ll have you in bed,” as he walked across the bathroom.

He set Q down beside the bed long enough to pull back layers of blankets and sheets. “Get in and stay warm,” he said, and covered Q as soon as he was up on the mattress. Then he leaned down and pressed a kiss to Q’s forehead, quietly saying, “You’re _infuriating_.”

“And a starfish,” Q reminded him with a yawn. “Kick me if I steal your blankets.”


	5. Chapter 5

Waking was something field agents dreaded and anticipated in equal measure. Bond had learned to wake silently, with minimal visible reactions, giving his senses time to report the presence of any threat so that he could come up with a response, even if it was just to throw his pillow as a distraction so he could get to a weapon.

Now, he came awake to a thin, warm body half-sprawled over him, full of sharp bones that dug into his hip and ribs and thigh. His right arm was asleep and his bed partner, whoever it was, seemed to be intent on claiming Bond’s pillow next.

 _Bond’s_ pillow. _His_ bed.

He opened his eyes and stared up at a familiar ceiling. What the _fuck_ was he doing at home, with someone else? Because the only person who _ever_ came home with him was Alec, and that was only if one or the other of them was too injured or hair-trigger violent to be left unsupervised, and Alec always slept on the sofa — _and_ they weren’t fucking.

Besides, this one was far, far too bony. Which meant Q.

 _Christ_. He closed his eyes as he woke up enough to remember the previous night, and he had to tell himself not to touch Q’s back. He’d put Q to bed, hopped into the shower long enough to drive the chill from his own skin, and then crawled in beside Q. Body warmth and a calm, living presence beside Q had helped him relax enough to fall asleep despite the pain.

Which did nothing to explain how he was going to explain this to Q, once he was no longer half out of his mind with... whatever the hell had driven him to endure something he hated so much.

No matter what, step one was to get out of bed, but the closest Bond could get was to turn onto his side enough to look at Q. Asleep, the tightness around his eyes and mouth had smoothed, reminding Bond of how beautifully relaxed he’d been for most of the weekend they’d spent together. His hair, never tame, had dried in wild spikes. Bond brushed one hand over the strands, trying to keep them out of his eyes.

Quietly, Bond tried to ease his arm out from under Q’s pillow. This would be easier for both of them if they weren’t naked in bed together. But Q, even asleep, didn’t seem to want to let Bond do as he pleased without a fight.

Q tucked in closer in yet another display of starfish-like agility. Bond sighed and tried to find somewhere safe to put his hands. He didn’t dare touch Q’s back, and anywhere lower was out of the question, so he settled for petting Q’s hair again.

“You’re going to need to let me get up soon,” he warned quietly, with what he hoped was just enough volume to rouse Q only if he was already close to waking.

Q’s response was muffled and not exactly verbal, but there nonetheless. He got his knee over Bond’s legs and pulled him in while burrowing deeper into the blankets.

Bond sighed — this was _distinctly_ uncomfortable at the moment — and said more firmly, “Q. Wake up. If nothing else, I need to order breakfast.”

In what suddenly felt like a familiar process, Q came awake slowly but carefully, twitching as if running a self-diagnosis. When he stretched his shoulders, he let out a long, pained groan that sounded suspiciously like “Owwww.”

“Shh, don’t try to move,” Bond told him, tightening his hand on the back of Q’s neck to hold him still. “If you let me up, I can get you some more paracetamol.”

“Don’t want to move,” Q said with a quiet mumble. “Hurts. And you feel good.”

Bond huffed and kissed Q’s forehead before he could stop himself. “You’ll just get sore if you lie here and don’t move. I know it hurts. Let me get you something, and then you can take a hot shower. You can come back to bed after that, if you want. All right?

Q grumbled but didn’t move. If anything, his grip tightened. “Do you have any of Wren’s cream?”

Startled, Bond shook his head. “Wren, your programmer? Do you —” He shook his head again, thinking there was no way Q and Wren could be involved — it would be a disaster of one waiting for the other to give orders and neither of them actually _doing_ anything. “What cream?”

“You made her fly once. She shares aftercare cream. And aftercare sometimes. When it hurts.” Q’s muscles bunched as his body wanted to stretch, but his mind wouldn’t let it.

“Stop moving,” Bond said, trying not to snap. What the hell had Q been doing to himself that he had to go to _Wren_ to recover? He had the sudden urge to demand names and then call Alec to help hunt the bastards down, but that wouldn’t help Q here and now. He promised himself he’d do that later.

Instead, he shifted up onto his elbow and carefully pulled the blanket down off Q’s shoulder so he could see his back. The damage wasn’t as bad as it could have been — no blood, for one thing, though it was almost a shame. The monitors would’ve stopped everything at the first sign of blood, consent or not. Instead, he was bruised and welted from shoulders to just above his kidneys, more heavily on the right side.

“You need paracetamol and a warm shower,” Bond insisted as he pulled the blanket back up. “Are you going to let me take care of you, or” — he faltered; he _wasn’t_ handing Q off to Wren or to anyone else — “or are we going to argue about it?”

“I don’t want to argue,” Q said into the pillow of Bond’s arm. “But I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“Then let me take care of you,” Bond insisted. He stopped trying to get out of bed and let Q close the inches between them. “I don’t want you hurting like this, Q. Is that what you want?”

“I don’t like pain,” Q confessed. He tucked his head in close to Bond’s neck, and Bond could feel his eyelashes.

“I’ll _kill_ anyone who tries to hurt you again,” Bond said thoughtlessly, though he wouldn’t even consider retracting his words. He pressed his face to Q’s hair, closing his eyes, wondering if he’d ever felt this protective of anything or anyone before.

“That’s not fair. It’s not their fault. I never told them to stop.” Q’s fingers curled lightly over Bond’s waist.

“You’re not going to get the chance. No one touches you —” Bond cut off, tensing, as his brain finally caught up with what he was saying. He took a deep, steadying breath, reminding himself that he’d already crossed the line with Q. If Q wanted… _last night_ , then Bond had no right to change that decision for him.

“No one touches me.” Q sighed and dragged his hand up and over Bond’s side. “That’s really the problem, isn’t it? If you wanted... I could... But you don’t seem to.”

Even half-awake, Bond could fill in the blanks enough for him to almost tell Q that he was wrong, because at least _some_ part of him did want Q. He hadn’t even hesitated to break Q’s scene — Q’s _consensual_ , if idiotic, scene. He’d just barged in as if he had the right, pulled Q out of the club without a moment’s thought, and brought him back here. Hell, even if they were more, in whatever sense, he still wouldn’t have that right. He was just too stubborn, too independent, and too bloody know-it-all to have seen any alternatives last night.

“We aren’t having this discussion now,” he said, taking the coward’s way out. He backed up so he could touch Q’s chin and try to tip his head back and look into his eyes. “Painkillers, a hot shower, and breakfast. Then you’re coming right back here, and we can talk all you bloody well want. Understand?”

Q sighed and buried himself under the blankets. “Your preference is mine,” he said, quietly muffled.

“I’m going to find whoever taught you that and break his knees,” Bond muttered, trying to keep the anger from showing in his voice. He didn’t want to scare Q.

He was tempted to take the offered escape, but instead he got down under the blankets with Q, trying to stay at eye level. “Tell me what you want, Q. If you want, I’ll take you home or to Wren’s or wherever you want. Or you can stay here and let me take care of you, or stay here and tell me to bugger off and I’ll go to Alec’s for the damn weekend. What do _you_ want?”

Q stared at him, the sharpness of his gaze returning a little as he woke up. He lay his hand out, palm up, on the bed between them. Bond slowly moved his hand over Q’s, curling his fingers around to hold Q gently. “If you don’t mind, I’ll stay here with you,” he finally said. “With paracetamol and hot water and blankets.”

Bond sighed, relieved, and leaned in to kiss Q’s forehead. “Stay here, then. I promise, I’ll be right back. All right?”

Q nodded and released Bond’s hand. “All right.”

Reluctantly — because he really did want to stay with Q — Bond got out of bed, stretching subtly as he walked to the bathroom. His clothes and Q’s were still on the floor in a wet pile. He brushed his teeth, found Q a toothbrush, and gathered up the clothes without bothering to throw on a robe. Even with the air conditioning at near-arctic levels, the cold felt good after soaking up Q’s body heat for the night.

God, this was a mistake. He had no business letting Q get attached to him — not to mention letting _himself_ get attached to anyone, but it was apparently too late for that. Just the thought of Q going back to that club to be with anyone, even someone who was careful and not a complete incompetent, made Bond’s fingers itch for his gun in a fit of irrational possessive jealousy.

He took the wet clothes to the laundry cupboard off the kitchen, where he searched the pockets. Q’s jacket, if he’d worn one, was still at the club, but he had his wallet and he’d followed MI6 security protocols by not carrying his MI6 identification or access card. Bond piled everything on the dryer and dumped the clothes in the washer, having long since learned that if it wasn’t dry clean only, it could go in a cold wash and probably not fall apart or turn colours.

Once that was done, he sent a quick series of texts to Alec — someone _did_ need to take care of any surveillance footage at or outside the nightclub, after all, not to mention picking up Q’s jacket. He was tempted to include a description of Q’s ‘partner’, in case Alec got bored and felt like hunting, but that was probably out of line.

He went back into the kitchen, where he had another stash of painkillers. He confirmed that he had absolutely no food suitable for breakfast (or lunch or dinner, for that matter) but refrained from placing an order, since he didn’t want anything delivered while he was keeping Q from passing out in the shower. Instead, he took a bottle of water and the painkillers back to the bedroom. Q was spread out again, hands and feet and a dark tuft of hair peeking out from under the duvet. He appeared to be mumbling something in his sleep, but Bond couldn’t make it out.

Bond was hesitant to wake him, but the painkillers would help, even if Q went right back to sleep. “Q, I need you to get up,” he said as he sat down on the edge of the bed and moved over to where Q was sprawled. He put the water bottle down so he could touch Q’s hair. “Wake up.”

The pile of blankets shifted. Q pulled his head up long enough to say, “Comfy.” Then he flopped back down and closed his eyes. “No work today?”

“No work, but you have to take this,” Bond said, amused. “Sit up enough to drink.” He poked at Q’s hand with the cold water bottle.

Q hissed, muttering, “Bloody cold,” before he took the water. The he hissed again as he shuffled to try and get upright. He flopped back and looked up at Bond, who tried to help him, but failed. “Still hurts. Can’t I just stay down here for a while?”

“Yes. Just sit up enough to take this. Prop up on one elbow, if that helps,” Bond insisted. He should’ve taken Q to A&E last night. Really, he needed to ice the bruises, but ice over that much of his back would end up freezing him half to death. His muscles were already sore and prone to locking up even with warmth to help them relax. “Do you want something stronger than paracetamol? You can sleep all weekend, so it’s fine, if you have no allergies.”

“If I take something stronger, will you take a bath with me?” Q asked nonsensically but hopefully.

“Yes.” Bond lifted his hand to touch Q’s face, still holding the paracetamol. “You’re a stubborn pain in the arse, you know.”

“Yes, I suppose I am. But at least I’m in good company,” Q said with a chuckle. He closed his eyes and curled back up under the blankets. “I’m just going to nap until we can get in the bath. Your tub is amazing.”

Bond indulged his possessive side for just a moment longer. He slid his fingers into Q’s hair, combing it back, and studied Q’s face. He could still see a hint of stress and pain, but that, at least, he could fix.

 

~~~

 

Leave it to Bond to get a bathtub meant for two — and then to argue about putting it to its intended use. The codeine distanced Q from the burning ache, leaving him relaxed enough to want to lie back against Bond’s chest, in his arms, though Bond tried to insist that he’d be more comfortable alone in the tub, or with them seated at opposite ends.

Finally, he’d let Bond have his way, but once Bond was seated at the far end of the tub, it was a simple matter for Q to turn around, moving freely thanks to the water’s soothing heat and the painkillers. Moments later, Q was snuggled back against Bond’s chest, comfortable and content, though very, very disoriented.

Q had never been one for medication — he found that the effect of divorcing his mind from his body made it even _more_ difficult to escape the frantic freight train of his thoughts, not less — so the effect of the codeine was quick and somewhat alarming.

“This is very disconcerting,” he told Bond quietly from where he was pressed sideways into Bond’s chest. “Is it normal to feel like your head is floating a good deal higher from your neck than it should be?”

“You don’t get awards for enduring pain,” Bond said tensely as his hands tightened on Q’s shoulder and hip. He was careful to avoid going near Q’s back. “If you don’t feel it, your body will be able to relax, which is better for healing.”

Q squeezed his eyes shut, moving his hand in the water experimentally to see how different the sensation was when he was practically high on opiates. Much to his amusement — or consternation; he hadn’t quite decided yet — he felt as if he were dragging his hand through gelatine. “That’s not the point, which you well know. What would taking a bath in gelatine feel like, I wonder?” He moved his hand through the water again, smirking.

“You can experiment with your own plumbing,” Bond said with an amused huff. He moved his hand from Q’s shoulder to his hair. “You don’t have to tell me anything, Q... but if you want to talk about last night, you can.”

Q shrugged, listening to and cataloguing the sounds of water splashing against the sides of the tub at the motion of his hand. He thought about putting a scale model of a human on a life raft in the bathwater, recreating some of the forces of ocean tides. He wondered if pretending to use it for predictive analysis would be a reasonable excuse for an adult to have bath toys.

“It was the predictable outcome of an old problem. Man has a problem. Man finds the solution. Man repeats solution over and over and over again, until repeated use ultimately lessens the effect of said solution. Escalation happens.” It wasn’t _exactly_ the truth, but it was close enough, and more importantly, it absolved Bond. “I’ve been dealing with some exceptional stress lately. It makes sense.”

“You hate pain,” Bond protested. “Q... You do realise that this is the type of incident that would end up in _my_ file and not surprise anyone from Psych, don’t you?”

“What makes you think anyone in Psych would be surprised by it being in my file?” Q asked, curiosity about the replication of tidal forces in bath water pushing him to sit up and lean forward to look at the tiny waves crashing against the tub walls. “Besides, the people in Psych are idiots. They think that all Double O’s have” — he pulled his hands out of the water to do drippy versions of air quotes — “‘issues.’”

Bond’s laugh was low and quiet but still splashed water against the sides of the tub. “You _know_ there are other ways. Other things you can do — or have done to you,” he corrected wryly. In a move that felt almost unconscious, he pulled Q’s head down against his shoulder and leaned his cheek against Q’s damp hair.

Q closed his eyes again, relaxing into the embrace. He tried to stop thinking about the force of water as it broke against tub walls, or sandbanks in the ocean, but he wasn’t very successful. The slight dizziness from the meds added to the sensation of his body being pulled by waves, and Q suddenly felt a little overwhelmed. “You’re a former sailor, so you know all about water, don’t you?”

“Enough not to unintentionally drown,” Bond said with another low laugh. “And I’ve hijacked every possible watercraft, from skiffs to — Well, no aircraft carriers, but two destroyers and a frigate.”

Q swallowed, clinging to Bond, trying to use him as an anchor to counteract the illogical feel of waves tugging at him. Bond stilled, giving Q a worried look.

Q tried to explain, “People tend to think of water as a soothing, lulling, thing. A calm and inexorable essential... whatever. Element, I guess. But people forget that water is heavy, dense, with neat little tricks like surface tension and rip tides and its own sort of inevitable destructive nature. It is murderous. It kills instantly, sometimes, through anything from crushing ships to pulling people under in tides. Other times, it kills slowly, like when it takes thousands of years of a tiny drip eroding the biggest boulder in half. All the same, really — it’s just a matter of degrees.”

Bond was silent for at least a minute, maybe five or even ten; Q’s sense of time was fuzzy. Then, quietly, Bond said, “I’m not going to let anything happen to you. I’m not — unless it’s what _you_ want, I won’t let anyone or anything hurt you.”

Q shook his head. “I’m sorry, I’m not making sense. Which is why you’re missing the point.” Q sighed, trying to remember where exactly he was trying to lead Bond, but suddenly the water was very, very distracting. He was forcefully reminded of why he didn’t like baths when he was at less than optimum. He _wanted_ to get the point across that whether it was wrapped in the pretty picture of knots and ropes, or the darker image of a whip on skin, it was all the same thing. A matter of degrees. “Nevermind. It was just something I learned from all the waterfalls. I forgot where I was going. Ready to get out?”

“Of course,” Bond said worriedly. He took hold of Q’s arm to help him stand and got out with a splash. “Bed? I can order food — you should eat something,” he said, pulling towels from the rod. Two of them fell, but he caught the third and wrapped it gently around Q’s shoulders.

“I don’t think I like codeine very much,” Q confessed with a crooked smile. “Though I suspect Sonic would be incredibly trippy right now. You don’t have a Playstation, do you?”

“I don’t, sorry.” Bond helped Q out of the tub and started patting him dry. “Sleep it off. I’ll order breakfast and wake you when it’s here. Is there anything particular you want?”

“Oh, god. Mario Galaxy. Not that I particularly enjoyed that game, but I bet it would feel spectacular right now to play. Or nausea-inducing.” Q smiled at Bond. “Have you ever fallen off a planet? It’s an odd sensation.”

“Christ, Q,” Bond said, steering Q to the padded bench by the vanity. Once he had Q seated, he crouched down, tugged over one of the fallen towels, and started drying off his legs. “Do I need to take you to Medical? You might be having a reaction to the codeine.”

“It’s fine. I just don’t take meds normally. And it’s just part of the game. You should play with me, sometimes. The games, I mean. Well, the other idea, too. But I was referring to the game.” Q looked back at the tub, watching the waves settle. “If you are my friend, though, I’m afraid I must insist that you stop threatening to take me to Medical. I can’t afford that right now.”

“We don’t have to —” Bond shook his head. “They won’t ask any questions. Not if it’s — I can make sure it doesn’t even go in your file.”

Q stared at him. “Are you all right?” he finally asked. “You were looking for someone at the club. After that horrible cock-up of a mission. Is there anything I can do? Besides the obvious, which for obvious reasons isn’t ideal at the —”

“Stop!” Bond interrupted sharply, hands pressing tight against Q’s knees. He looked down and took a deep breath. “I have no bloody idea what the hell to do to _help_ you. So just let me bring you to someone else — someone who can. All right?”

“I don’t need help,” Q said with annoyance. “The codeine is making me not coherent. I’m _fine_. I’m worried about _you_. You almost died again. I hate that. You must hate it more.”

“And you let some bitch all but tear you apart!” Bond snapped furiously. He got to his feet, shoulders tense, and shook his head, scattering droplets of water everywhere. “God, Q — If you think for one _minute_ that I’m going to sit back and let you do that to yourself — I _can’t_. All right? I tried, but I bloody _can’t_.”

Q wanted to stare at Bond, but even in his less-than-clear state he knew that wouldn’t help the situation. He had no idea how he and Bond had gotten to this point, really — it was dizzying how fast Bond would snap from ‘nothing more’ to ‘you’re mine’ without any significant shift to explain it. Q had thought Bond’s ‘taking care’ of him was probably just another manifestation of his need to dominate, to be in control, but he was starting to doubt that conclusion now.

“All right,” he said carefully, tipping his head. He stood and leaned into Bond. “It was a stupid decision. Can we go to bed? I’ll explain Mario Galaxy to you, if you like.”

Still dripping, Bond pulled Q against his chest and ran his hands down Q’s back, feather-light, barely enough to start wicking away the water clinging to his bruised, welted skin. “Can I take you to Medical?” he asked a bit desperately. “Or A&E? We don’t even have to give identification.”

Wondering why in the hell Bond, infamous hater of doctors and nurses, was being so insistent, Q hesitated. “My back hurts, but nothing truly serious. And I’m a lightweight, literally, when it comes to medicines. So I don’t think it’s necessary. But if you are truly that worried, I’ll go to A&E.”


	6. Chapter 6

Fortunately, Bond knew people. Between his connections and Alec’s, he probably could have bought a stolen American tank on the black market. Finding a doctor who understood discretion presented no challenge at all, and though an examination and X-rays proved that Q wasn’t injured beyond deep tissue bruising, Bond at least felt better.

So did Q, though that could be attributed to the mild sedative that the doctor had given him before taking the X-rays. Armed with a care regimen and a substantially lighter prescription, Bond brought Q back home, got him out of the somewhat oversized tracksuit and T-shirt, and tucked him into bed.

Twice over the next day, he woke Q for toast, tea, and painkillers. The third time, early the next morning, Q’s eyes were clear, no longer tight and shadowed with pain. He still took the painkiller that Bond offered him, though, washing it down with the Earl Grey tea Bond had ordered with a delivery of groceries the previous afternoon.

At one point in the early afternoon, Bond got a call about a visitor — Wren, of all people. Not wanting to wake Q, he met her down in the lobby.

She gave him a narrow-eyed, wary look. "Hey, James," she said uncertainly. "Q texted me."

There was a messenger bag over her shoulder that looked suspiciously like the bag Q brought to work with him frequently; Wren confirmed his suspicion when she shifted it on her shoulder, revealing a familiar torn corner.

"What can I do for you, Wren?" he asked, for a brief moment wondering if Q had changed his mind after all and wanted to go to her place to finish healing

"Like I said, Q texted me." She took the bag from her shoulder, though she didn't immediately offer it to him. "Is he okay?"

"I took him to A&E last night," Bond replied cautiously. "He's fine." He glanced at the bag. "Would you like me to give him that? I've heard great things about that special cream of yours."

After the weekend he'd spent with her, he knew what to look for — subtle cues that showed when her suspicion eased. "Please," she said, holding out the bag to him. "It's everything he asked for. No trouble finding anything." She licked her lips and eyed Bond. "Is he —" she began, before she shook her head, obviously worried.

"I'm helping him," Bond said calmly. He held his hand out for the bag. "He'll be fine in a few days."

She hissed in concern and released the bag to him. "James... He — There was —" She took a deep breath. "Are you taking care of him?"

Bond knew she wasn't actually inquiring after Q's physical health alone. He knew that she had been the one to have to take care of Q after the recent self-destructive turn his actions had taken — when what he _wanted_ and what he _needed_ crossed wires somewhere. Wren couldn't be the one to help him find his equilibrium again; they were too much alike. She was asking him if he had stepped up and taken responsibility.

"I am," he said, feeling the weight of responsibility fall on him, even though he'd taken that responsibility when he'd unbound Q from the cross.

"All right," she said without hesitation. Trustingly. "Have him call me when he's feeling better."

“Thank you, Wren,” he said, torn between teasing out more information and getting back to Q as soon as possible. His responsibility to Q won out, and as soon as she’d turned to leave, he was already heading for the lift.

Five minutes later he let himself into the bedroom, where he was relieved to find Q was still sleeping, unharmed. Q wouldn’t have texted Wren for no reason, so Bond brought the bag to the armchair beside the bed, sat down, and gently put a hand on Q’s shoulder.

“Q? Can you wake up a bit?” he asked quietly.

The groan that came from the bed might not have actually been entirely human, but it still sounded like an improvement over yesterday’s mutterings of pain and annoyance. Q twitched, but didn’t actually make any attempt to get out from the covers or show any indication he was conscious.

After a moment’s debate, Bond decided to sort through the bag. If Q had asked for soldering irons and computer components, he could go back to sleep; Bond would only make an effort to wake him for something important, such as a prescription.

He found clothes — a soft, warm, oversized cotton jumper that would be gentle on Q’s back; an old, well-worn pair of jeans; trainers. Under the clothes, he discovered an unlabelled tub of cream, a tablet computer, and a shoebox labelled “Bond’s Bug” in a nearly-indecipherable chicken scratch. It was wrapped in packing tape, but — to Bond’s relief — didn’t have air holes or any other signs of a skittering, living creature inside.

Q’s well-being took precedence over Bond’s curiosity. He put the bug-box aside, picked up the cream, and moved from the chair to the edge of the bed. He felt strangely reluctant to touch Q. He no longer needed Bond’s help, and Bond was all too conscious that despite the last day and a half, he had no right to treat Q as anything other than a friend.

But he wanted to. And that was the whole fucking problem — the insurmountable, unsolvable dilemma. Because Bond didn’t do relationships, and Q needed someone who could be stable and steady and _there_ for him. Bond was good for one-night stands and long weekends, and he knew better than to even repeat that much because that would lead to _more_.

Q needed him, though, and he finally gave in to the instinct to take care of Q. “I’m just going to put this on your back. Can you roll over?” he asked, trying to guide Q onto his stomach.

“As long as the codeine is finally out of my system,” Q mumbled. He turned his head to blink sleepily at Bond, eyes unfocused and hair sticking out in every direction. “I don’t need glasses, do I?” he asked as he shuffled under the blankets. He rolled ungracefully, then let his face fall into the mattress before Bond could answer. His movements immediately stilled again, except for slow, even breathing.

“You’re fine.” Bond opened the tub and scooped out some of the cream. “Wren came by. Do you remember texting her?” he asked as he rubbed the cream between his hands to warm it.

Q turned his head to the side, not opening his eyes, but leaving just enough room to speak clearly. “If she could interpret whatever I managed to type out, I should give her a raise.” Then he stilled for a moment and turned to look up at Bond. “Oh. Is there a box in there?”

Bond pushed Q back down. “Stay,” he said, smoothing the cream over the worst of the welts and bruises. “There’s a box. With a bug. It’s either dead or it’s a surveillance device. Either one is likely, knowing you.”

“Well, I didn’t package it very well, so it might very well be dead,” Q said, voice muffled from where he’d let his head fall to the mattress again. The first signs of tension that had started to creep back in his body when he first woke up started to melt away under Bond’s gentle application of the minty cream. “What did you say? The Q Branch rule about your being able to take home things that like you?”

“Is this about the club?” Bond asked, trying not to sound too defensive. “I wasn’t about to leave you there.”

Q sighed. “Just open the box. You don’t have to be gentle with it, but no shaking please. And promise that you won’t chastise me for being sentimental.”

 _Sentimental?_ Bond wondered, though he refused to be distracted from his task of applying the cream. “How are you feeling?”

“I think those damn opiates are flushed completely from my system,” Q said with a chuckle. “I feel much better. I was thinking... would you like me to upgrade your flat’s security? The scanner at the front door isn’t exactly a significant barrier to anyone. Upgrading won’t be very difficult.”

“I’ve always held the policy of just shooting any unauthorised entrants,” Bond answered. He rubbed his hands to get rid of the remaining cream before he turned back to the bag.

“Shooting people is as good a plan as any once they’re _in_ the flat, but wouldn’t you sleep better if you had a system that could keep people out in the first place?”

“My plan gives me dead enemies rather than live would-be locksmiths.” He picked up the box and peeled up the end of the tape wrapped over the flaps. He ripped it off with a quick tug and then opened the flaps.

Inside was one of the camera bugs Q had been designing in his office weeks ago. _The Q Branch policy about taking home things that like you_ , Q had said, and Bond remembered using almost those exact same words.

Was this _that_ bug? The one that had nudged against Bond’s foot?

Q craned his neck to look down at where Bond was sitting, lifting his shoulders a bit to try and see what Bond was doing. He gave up and flopped back down with a sigh. “I didn’t make any improvements, I’m sorry to say, so she won’t function any better than she did when you first met her. Though if you took off the camera, you’d probably have better luck. Or I could. No I couldn’t. Unless you have a set of mini-screwdrivers. Which I would normally have, but...” Q trailed off. His breathing slowed again, and Bond couldn’t tell if he’d fallen back asleep or merely gave up on trying to have a coherent conversation.

Bond stared down at the bug in the box. It was powered down — that or Q had improved the AI and the bug knew better than to try and escape. Had Q _kept_ the bug? The box was labelled with Bond’s name; Q had kept the bug _for him_.

Carefully, he moved off the edge of the bed, looking back to make certain he hadn’t disturbed Q’s rest. Q was still, except for the shallow movement of his breathing. Bond watched him for a few seconds, and then he went to find a new home for the bug.

 

~~~

 

It took another half hour or so for Q to start to move again. For the first time in the past couple days, he didn’t wake up with a wince or complaint of pain, but with the more typical sighs and twitches Bond had become familiar with during their first weekend together. Apparently he didn’t realise that he’d fallen asleep, because he picked up their conversation where they’d left off.

“You _don’t_ have a mini screwdriver set, do you?”

Bond looked up from his e-reader. “I don’t think it’s safe to allow you to engineer in your current state.”

“I wouldn’t mind the distraction.” He rolled onto his side, squinting at Bond. “Would you like to come lie down with me for a bit?” he asked almost cautiously. “Please?”

Uncomfortably, Bond thought about Q’s trained instinct to accommodate anyone more dominant — to appease anger or settle a perceived debt. “I don’t expect anything from you.”

“So you’ll finally let me ramble on like a silly Nintendo fan about Mario Galaxy, then?” he asked with a smile. “Maybe followed up by some discussion about why you’re an idiot for not letting me upgrade your security?”

“You remember that?” Bond asked, hand twitching forward to stop Q from moving, though he caught himself. Bad enough that he was staring; no longer hazed with pain or fogged by opiates, Q’s bright, lively eyes were absolutely captivating. And his smile... Bond laughed awkwardly and looked away, saying, “And that’s going in your file: no codeine.”

“I won’t argue with that,” Q said darkly, needlessly flattening the blankets around him. “Those were awful. Made me feel like I...” He shook his head before looking back up at Bond again. “Come lie down with me. Please.”

“You don’t have to,” Bond protested. He finally reached out to touch Q’s hand. “I just want you to rest.”

Q chuckled, though he looked somewhat exasperated. “That’s not why I’m asking. I...” He hesitated. “My preference is to not sleep alone,” he said slowly, as if wrestling with each word.

After another moment, Bond moved from the armchair to the edge of the bed. “You’ve barely been alone since we got back from the doctor’s,” he said, moving an inch closer to Q. “I won’t leave.”

Q glared at Bond. “I just... God, Bond, I just told you what _I_ want.” Then he stopped, and took a breath. “My _preference_ ,” he started again, emphasising the noun, “is to play bloody starfish with you. I’ll climb into the armchair if it’s necessary,” he threatened.

With a faint sigh, Bond moved across the bed, staying resolutely on top of the covers. “Better?” he asked, rolling onto his side, still a foot away from Q.

Copying Bond’s position with slower, more careful movements, Q pulled himself out from the covers and lay down across from Bond, also on his side. “It’s an improvement, but not what I had in mind.” He reached his hand out, laying it halfway between them, palm up invitingly.

“Q...” Bond looked down and moved his hand on top of Q’s. “I didn’t do this to get you in my debt. You need to know that.”

“Well, obviously,” Q said with a raised eyebrow. “That would have been a bloody stupid way to go about it, if it were. I would expect better planning and execution from you if you ever decided to attempt your manipulative tactics on me. Not that it would work, even then.”

Bond huffed, running his thumb against the side of Q’s hand. “I’m sorry if my interference was unwelcome,” he said a bit stiffly — primarily because it was a lie. He was _sorry_ that he hadn’t taken the opportunity to break Zippers’ wrist. At the very least, he should have knocked her unconscious and left her to drown under the sprinklers.

“No, you’re not,” Q said, still smiling. “And it wasn’t unwelcome. I wasn’t exactly having a good time.” He pulled a little closer to Bond, watching him. “While we’re on the subject, I’m sorry I derailed _your_ evening. Though it worked out well enough for me in the end, if we’re being honest.”

“I wasn’t looking to pick anyone up,” Bond said with a shrug. “It wouldn’t have been safe.” He looked up and met Q’s eyes. “You wanted to go back to her. All of this — it was without your consent.”

Q sat up and glared down at Bond, his hand tightening on Bond’s. “Don’t be an idiot. If I didn’t want to go with you, I wouldn’t have. If I didn’t want to stay after we got here, I would have left. You gave me plenty of opportunities — not that I need you to, by the way. Short of a highly efficient and well-organised kidnapping, there isn’t much I can’t escape from if I need or want to.” He used his free hand to rub at the back of his neck. “And I know you know this, but let me remind you. Despite my proclivities, I’m not actually weak, Bond. I’m not Quartermaster because of my charm and good looks.”

Bond looked up at Q. “I know. I wasn’t rational about it, though.” He rolled over onto his back, switching his left hand for his right so he could keep hold of Q. “This is why I don’t get involved.”

With what seemed like a relieved sigh, Q relaxed and carefully lowered himself down, this time not bothering to keep any distance between them. He settled right beside Bond, laying their joined hands on Bond’s chest. “Part of the fun can be the letting go of rationality,” Q said quietly. “As long as you have a partner who can keep you in check when you need it.”

Bond huffed, though he couldn’t keep from getting more comfortable next to Q. “Irrational isn’t safe for me. Bad enough I’m possessive and stubborn and too fucking set in my ways.”

“I wouldn’t let you cross the line,” Q said even more quietly. “And you would have to do the same for me. That’s the great thing about a partnership; there is a balance that can be achieved if you trust each other enough.”

“Are you trying to negotiate a relationship?” Bond asked apprehensively. He could think of a thousand reasons why it was a bad idea. Not just bad. Absolutely bloody _terrible_.

“I’m trying to figure out what the hell we’re doing,” Q pointed out. “Because I’m in your flat. And this is a second weekend — as bizarre as it may be. And you obviously want something.” He shuffled closer, laying his head on Bond’s shoulder and wrapping an arm around his waist.

“We don’t have to be _doing_ anything,” Bond said. “I told you —”

“You don’t expect anything,” Q interrupted.

“I wouldn’t know what to _do_ with anything more,” Bond protested.

“You could always find out.”

“Or I could _not_ experiment on someone —” he said, before he cut off. He sighed and closed his eyes, wondering when Q had become so _important_ to him. “I don’t want to risk you.”

“The alternative is that we go our separate ways and you don’t get to have me at all.” Q was still sweeping his thumb gently over Bond’s hand, but the rest of his body had all but stilled.

“You deserve better,” Bond insisted. “Christ, Q, no one _wants_ to be in a relationship with someone like me.”

In a movement that managed to be graceful despite the tug it must have had on his back, Q hooked a leg over Bond and straddled his hips, looking down at him intently. “Obviously _that_ isn’t true, Bond. I’m not presenting a hypothetical here.”

“Why me? Because of one good weekend? You could have _anyone_ you wanted. Even Alec would be better for you.”

Q settled with a light grind, causing Bond to uncomfortably recall that he never had found himself a partner the other night. “Don’t kid yourself,” Q said with a smirk. “That wasn’t a _good_ weekend.” He leaned down to meet Bond’s gaze. “That was a _bloody fantastic_ weekend. We are brilliantly compatible, Bond. We each know what the other needs and wants — and not just when it comes to sex. Though that part was pretty amazing, too.” He ground down again, this time more intently, and brushed his lips against Bond’s. “You have what I need to calm my mind. I have what you need to stay out of the darkness.”

“Fucking hell,” Bond whispered. He didn’t realise he was pulling on Q’s hair until Q broke the kiss with a gasp, head lifting to bare his throat. Bond resisted the urge to bite and instead held Q at bay long enough to insist, “ _If_ we do this, there are rules.”

“Of course there are,” Q said with a breathless laugh. He started slowly moving over Bond’s lap in a gentle rocking motion that Bond couldn’t stop by tugging on Q’s hair. “Let’s hear them.”

“Stop,” he ordered, refraining from pushing Q off only because of his back. _Be careful for at least five days_ , the doctor had said, though some of the bruising would remain for up to two weeks. Q stopped moving, and Bond relaxed his hands, petting Q’s hair back out of his face. “First, you forget everything anyone else made you do. I don’t ever want you to answer me with ‘whatever you want’ or... however you were taught to say it.”

“I’m not arguing,” Q said, eyes locked on Bond’s. “But that will be a very tough habit to break. You have to give me time and the opportunity to fail occasionally without you walking away.”

“I wouldn’t,” Bond said softly, wondering if someone had threatened to do so. He encouraged Q to lie down again, and carefully rested his hands on Q’s hips, below the bruising. “You have to be honest with me. And that includes telling me when I’m being an arse — because I know it’ll happen.”

Q laughed, the sound muffled by Bond’s shirt. “I think I’ve proven often enough in our working relationship that I have no problem telling you you’re being an arse. Frequently. And in public.”

Some of the tension coiled in Bond’s chest started to loosen. “And this isn’t” — he shied away from words like ‘permanent’ — “full-time. Sex isn’t everything. And if you tell anyone else I said that, I’ll have you shot,” he teased.

“I’m afraid I need clarification on that point. Does that mean non-exclusive? We’ll see other people? Still go to clubs?” Q asked.

Bond went still. That hadn’t been what he’d meant — not at all — and the thought was chilling. Just _imagining_ anyone else touching Q roused his darkest, most protective, possessive instincts. But at the same time, he had no right to demand monogamy. Not when he knew full well that he couldn’t offer the same. Seduction was as much a vital part of his arsenal as his gun.

But on other nights, on weekends between missions... the thought of having Q all to himself appealed far more than it should have, even when held up against the cost of _not_ having anyone else. All the old arguments — variety, lack of complication, lack of entanglement and commitment — didn’t seem so important compared to _knowing_ that Q was his. Could be his.

Q sighed. “All right, I’ll take that as a no — at least, until you feel the need to clarify further. Though obviously your work means that our definition of exclusive is a good deal more loose than the average one.”

“How the hell could I even _ask_ —” Bond shook his head and moved one hand to the back of Q’s neck, wishing it were safe to just hold him properly. “I don’t want to trap you into anything one-sided. I don’t even want — If you came to me and asked about anyone even a quarter as bad as I actually am, I’d offer to shoot him to save you from him. And you’re so bloody _perfect_ , how can I trust myself to make any sort of rational decision?”

“I might need clarification on some of those points later, too,” Q said with a chuckle. “But not right now. I’m just going to bask in the idea that you find someone like _me_ perfect.”

“A perfect bloody idiot for wanting me,” Bond muttered. He lifted his head enough to kiss Q’s hair, wondering why the hell something as common as this — a relationship between two somewhat mature, somewhat sane adults — should be so damned terrifying. “If I screw this up, tell Alec. He’ll take care of it for you, and I can trust him not to botch the job and leave me in a coma somewhere halfway around the world.”

“That’s the second time you’ve brought up Alec, Bond. Is there something I should know?” he asked teasingly, though he didn’t laugh.

“He’s nice,” Bond said a bit petulantly. “You deserve someone nice. Not that I —” He sighed and tugged on Q’s hair, trying to meet his eyes. “I don’t want to... _not_. I don’t even want to share you. The thought of letting anyone else near you — I’m not feeling terribly rational about it at the moment, unhealthy as that may be. I just can’t give you what I’m not.”

“And I wouldn't dream of asking you to. _But_ ,” Q said, lifting his head to stare at Bond, "the same goes for you. I am who I am. I have my own limitations. I get the same courtesy.”

“Always,” Bond promised, hoping like hell he wouldn’t break that promise. “Whatever you need, you just have to tell me.”

“I’m not very good at that,” Q reminded him. “You’ll have to be patient.”

Bond huffed. “I’m a sniper. You’re the one who’ll have to be patient, dealing with me. I don’t do this, Q. I’m probably mad for even considering it.”

“We can be mad together. After all, you’re a secret agent and I’m a not-so-evil genius. I think that ship has sailed,” Q said with a grin before leaning back down to swipe another gentle press of lips against Bond’s.

“We’re not doing anything until you’re better,” Bond warned before he allowed the kiss. The first touch of Q’s tongue stole his breath, and he twisted his fingers in Q’s hair to hold him close for endless seconds. He drew back only when he realised he could hurt Q if he didn’t stop, and even then, it was just enough to look up into Q’s eyes. “And if you change your mind... just tell me to go away. All right?”

“Idiot,” Q said fondly before he leaned back.

“Why did you keep the bug?” Bond asked quietly.

“The rest of the prototypes were being sent off to the lab for repurposing. That one was yours, whether you wanted to take it home or not.” Q sighed. “Keeping it in case you wanted it someday seemed like a better alternative than destruction.”

Bond stared up at him, listening not to Q’s words but to everything he wasn’t saying. “If it likes me, I get to keep it?” he asked softly.

Q smiled softly and leaned back down, tucking his face against Bond’s throat. “You get to keep it.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Book cover for Adrift by BootsnBlossoms and Kryptaria](https://archiveofourown.org/works/763678) by [catonspeed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/catonspeed/pseuds/catonspeed)




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